she came over with a twelve pack. an hour later we was wonderin’ why she didn’t just bring a case or two, instead of makin’ us drive to the store for a re-up. six beers into the new case she dropped her drawers & pissed in the middle of the kitchen floor.
after she cleaned herself up, she went out to her car. came back in with a big-ass diaper, put it on & crashed out on the couch ‘til mornin’.
bat. shit. crazy.
next time she came over she brought plenty to start off with. about eighteen or so in she asked for someone to hit ‘er. she wanted it right in the face, and she wanted it hard.
ain’t no fool gonna hit a broad right off the rail like that, but she didn’t give up. got all pissy ‘bout it, called us a bunch of fuckin’ pussies, so I decided to take one for the team. she was askin’ for it, after all.
I gave ‘er a good knock with my left, thinkin’ that’d be good enough. my twelve measly beers musta addled the ol’ brain. bitch called me a pussy again. “ya goddamn pussy, my na-na hits harder’n that.”
I clocked ‘er a good ‘un with the right. didn’t really mean to hit ‘er hard as I did, but shit happens sometimes. broke ‘er nose & blacked both eyes. them bitches was swole shut in ten minutes. she gave me a bloody kiss & said thanx.
bat. shit. crazy.
didn’t see ‘er for a couple weeks after that. she didn’t bring no beer next time, just a whiskey buzz & a bag of weed. she sat down by the fire, & asked for another lick.
I didn’t have no intention of hittin’ ‘er again, so I just kept playin’ my guitar. started into that tune with the chorus that goes “bang bang bang went frankie’s gun, he shot me down, Lucille.” first time through she cocked ‘er head kinda funny & just looked at me. I kept on playin’.
second time around her beer just barely missed my head. slung fuckin’ bud light all over my purty alvarez. I wouldn’t drink that shit for free, much less polish my two thousand dollar guitar with it. kinda pissed me off. “bitch, what the fuck is yer goddamn problem?”
“I don’t like that song.” “yeah, well no shit. lotsa people don’t like lotsa songs, but they don’t go ‘round throwin’ shit at folks.” she was getting’ damn close to earnin’ that knockout she’d been lookin’ for.
“frankie was my sister’s name. she shot herself in the head two years ago. dumb bitch, took me a month to get the blood outta the carpet. here, check this out.”
she reached down in her purse & fumbled for a minute. not findin’ what she was lookin for, she went out & rifled through her camaro, came back through the door smilin’. chunked somethin’ at me again, but this time I caught it. good thing, the goddamn thing was loaded. a smith & wesson snub nose .38. “what the fuck is this.”
“that’s frankie’s gun. & I don’t like that song.”
bat. shit. crazy.
Yossarian Hunter is a bad motherfucker from Mississippi. Read his poetry or fucking die.
